Grapevine Craft Brewery Monarch Classic American Wheat

I think I figured out why people drink all that swill that I refuse to touch.  Not because it is good (it isn't), not because it is unique (also a big "no"), not because they taste some mysterious quality that is hidden from me, no, they drink it because they like it.  That's it.  They just like it.  I don't like it, other people shouldn't like it, but there you go.  People like things, often for no great reason.  Even very bad things ( I'm lookin' at you, Reno, Nevada).  This week, I tried a pointless, unimpressive, and unnecessary beer.  I liked it.

Between Dallas, Fort Worth, and Denton is Grapevine Lake, and to a lesser extent, the town of Grapevine, Texas.  Just south of the southern end of the lake is Grapevine Brewery.  Based on this one beer, I have to assume that from Grapevine Brewery comes nothing of any particular note.  That's not to say I think their beers are likely bad.  Calling them "bad" would be a step too far.  My guess is that their beers don't really deserve adjectives.  Not "bad", not "good", even "mediocre" seems overly poetic and excessive.  I bet their beers mostly exist as beers.  Maybe Grapevine provided the beer in Repo Man.

If I had a blind sip of this beer, I would have assumed the type face on the can was sans serif.  But, unlike the beer inside, the can is quite surprising.  Bold yellow, red, orange, silver and blue colors make up the graphically hip art.  What should be a number of disjointed elements come together quite well, giving me something fun to look at and explore.  Part of the label even announces, "Nothin' fancy.  Just good."  True for the label.  Over-generous for the beer.

As I said, I like this beer.  I like this beer in the same way that I like a date to have two breasts. The "quality" of this beer has less to do with its own merits than on the negative aspects of similar options.  I'd choose the Monarch if the only other beers were Coors and Millers.  Between this and a Lone Star, well... then there is a question of patriotism to consider.  The Monarch may be a touch less watery than those other guys, but that's about it.  It does have a way better can though.

There are many many other beers that I prefer, so I won't be buying a cold six of Monarch for any reason I can think of.  It might make a decent bar-b-que beer, or Igloo filler.  If you are near a bucket of ice and one of these pokes it's head out at you, give it a shot.  It won't let you down, because you should have extremely low expectations.  Maybe afterwords you'll find a better beer somewhere close-by.

For those who give a shit: Monarch Classic American Wheat, from Grapevine Craft Brewery in Grapevine, Texas.  12oz can, 4.3% ABV.  Golden straw color, very mild head.  Could be confused for the Muzak version of a James Taylor song.

Hitachino Espresso Stout

Japan is known for hyper-violent animated porn and genuinely shitty beer.  Very much a land of contradictions.  A friend of mine had a chance to drink his way through a number of craft breweries in Tokyo recently, and assures me that the Japanese are both excellent brewers and world class drinkers.  So, here I sit with an espresso stout from Ibaraki, Japan.  I wonder how it will go.

Hitachino Nest Espresso Stout from Kiuchi Brewery in Ibaraki, Japan.  Mostly dark with minimal head.  11.2 oz bottle.  7% ABV.  There is a psychedelic owl on the label.

The first sip did not go well.  Sure, plenty of solid coffee.  Mucho malty, too.  But thin!  Why did they make it thin?  The obnoxious pricks I aspire to drink like would refer to this thinness as "mouth feel".  They might say that this has wimpy mouth feel.  Because it does.  A bevy of really solid flavors fall sadly flat and seem watered down.  Right now, I am just so upset with Japan that I need a drink.  As luck would have it, I've got a beer right here, and it seems to be helping.  Isn't that strange?  Maybe that acid-trip owl has managed to blend such solid flavors with so decent an ABV, that my standards are being simultaneously lowered and raised.  I feel cheap and used, and I'm strangely comfortable with that.

By glass two, I am drinking coffee that had a beer dipped in it.  This is a good thing.  I like coffee.  I like beer, too.  Suddenly, I'm happy.  Suddenly, I think my friend may have been telling the truth about beer in Japan.  Perhaps they are on to something over there.  Buuuuuut, I wish they would put more oomph into it.  There are those contradictions again.  A great tasting beer that wants to deliver (really really wants to) but is practically designed fall short.

I like this beer.  At some point, I'm sure I'll try many other beers from this brewery.  It really is a shame, though.  The "almost there" factor is so noticeable and unavoidable.  You know how if your ear itches, you could be having the time of your life, but it will be the time of your life with an itchy ear?  It's like that.  I want to move past that thinness and just enjoy the deliciousness, but I can't.  I must take the good with the blah.  Still, there is far more good than blah.  I say you should try this beer, but take it with a grain of salt.

Deus Brut des Flandres

This week's beer was generously donated by Diego, because he thinks that I'm cheap.  I don't think I'm cheap, just low rent.  So, he squandered $34 on a fancy bottle of Deus Brut des Flandres.  It comes with a leaflet collared to its neck, which details in 3 languages how to serve this beer-of-beers.  I wonder if I am fancy enough for a beer like this, or if Diego (and the old gypsy woman) was right.

First, I should tell you about the bottle.  It is a really majestic bottle, no doubt.  Its shape is that of a champagne bottle for reasons to be made clear.  The label is styled to evoke the look of European wine labels.  I guess that may be a very American observation, and, if so, deserves extra credibility because 'Murica!  Fuck, yeah.  As you can see from the pictures, the label does feature many of the stylistic bells and whistles one might expect from an old-world booze label.

The full text of the name is pretty impressive, "Beyond The Best of Deus Brut des Flandres, Cuvee Prestige 2011"  What balls!  Seriously, that's like just hanging a pair of nuts on the bottle.  The back label talks about how it is bottled in Belgium, then shipped to France for the "traditional 'remuage' and 'degorgement'."  I could look those words up, but the internet is difficult and filled with kitties and porn.  Everything about the bottle is designed to ask the shopper, could this bottle be worth $34?

So, Diego bought it for me, I took it home, shoved it in the fridge over night, and pulled it out today to do some drinking.  Before I get to the drinking, though, I had to read the leaflet.  I'd hate to drink it wrong, after all.  The leaflet has two points to make: one, this beer has been very carefully treated like a bottle of old-school champagne, double fermented, bottled, aged, spun daily, de-yeasted, and re-bottled just for me, and, two, serve chilled.  Not just a little chilled, either, chilled like a son of a bitch.  Specifically, 6-12 hours in the fridge, then either 10 minutes in an ice bucket or 20 minutes in the freezer, finally poured "gently" into chilled fluted glasses, with the bottle re-chilled between pours. Now, there it sits, in my chilled, fluted, fancy-pants glass, and here I sit, hoping that with my first sip, I will grow a tweed jacket with elbow patches.

I tasted it.  It is light, sweet, sparkly, yeasty, and pretty fun.  No spontaneous tweed yet, sadly, but not a bad sip of beer.  I still feel more like Xander than Jiles.  That's not such a bad thing, but an auto-Jiles elixir would be pretty awesome.  I could compare it to a cross between champagne and a malt-martini, but that just sounds gross.  Its not gross, its good.  The intent of the brewers was an aperitif or dessert beer.  The sweetness certainly makes that the right direction.

This is the kind of beer that you don't just drink, but sip and stare at in the glass.  You thoughtfully watch the bubbles and try to decide what you think of it.  Part of you kind of just wanted a damn beer and what the hell is this shit, but at the same time, you kind of dig it.  Sure, its different, not what you expected.  Do you like it?  Hate it?  By this point, you are on your second glass, and when the shit did that happen?  You finish that glass and the next, but you still don't know how you feel.  So, there you are, staring at bubbles hurrying up to the top of a straw yellow liquid, trying really hard not to think it looks way too much like urine, wondering if you like this beer or not.  The answer is, yes you like it.  If you didn't spit it out at the first sip, then, yeah, you like it.  Maybe grudgingly, maybe outright, but you do like it.

That is where I fall on this beer.  I like it.  I'm not 100% sure why I like it, but I'm several glasses in with no regrets.  It was fun to be extra fussy about chilling and pouring it.  Also, Diego was the chump that paid for it, so even better.  You'd have to be some kind of chump to pay $34 for this stuff and not even taste it for yourself.  #DiegoRules

I don't know how it got into the glasses, but I'm glad it did.  I think.

Save The World Agnus Dei

When presented with the opportunity, sometimes it is appropriate to Save the World.  Of course, by that, I mean drink a beer.  That's gonna be my contribution.  You're all very welcome.

Save The World Brewing Co., of Marble Falls, TX, Agnus Dei, Witbier Ale.  22 Fl. oz., 5.7% ABV.  Pale yellow and delightfully foamy.

The label: you can look at it.  Its fine.  The backstory: "agnus dei" means "the lamb of god" aaaaaaand, I don't care.  The beer: FUCKS YEAH! I mean it, plural.  I'm diggin' it.

First off, go buy this beer.  Also, drink it once you own it.  Do you like wheat beer?  Good.  Go buy this one a lot.  It has flavors, and tastes, and its pretty, and frothy-frothy, and ooooooooo...  Plus, secondly, I seriously like a solid wheatbeer, or witbeir, or whatever.  I don't care.

Some beers are like that.  Just shut-up-and-enjoy-it kind of beer.  You know what I mean?  Like a sunset or a particularly grand vista that demands you simply enjoy it.  It doesn't have to be rare or even unique, simply of a certain quality.  And, as if you hadn't guessed, this is that.  It has what you want in a wheatbeer.

Contrary to brewery belief, drinking this probably won't save the world, but can you really afford to take the chance?  Seems kind of irresponsible of you.  You will enjoy the beer, though, so, come on, tiger, let's do this.

Yeah, so seriously, go nuts.

That's it.

Fulers Vintage Ale 2013

Some beers deserve a label with lots of flash and scripty fonts, maybe a seal, or even a special box with an insert.  Some beers get those things even if they don't deserve them.  Most beers come in a six-pack.  Personally, I think almost all beer should just come in six-packs.  Not as a reflection of quality or out of a desire to chug numerous bottles, but because beer is good and best when shared.

Fullers Vintage Ale 2013, 1pt. 0.9 fl/oz.  8.5% ABV.  From Fuller Smith & Turner Griffin Brewery, London.  Honey amber with a gentle froth.

I saw this box with this beer selling for about 10 bucks, and I figured, with packaging like that, it must be worth a try.  So, surprisingly, I tried it.  I'm one glass in already, and what I want to decide about this beer is if it deserves all that packaging.  One box with two labels, an insert describing previous vintage ales, a bottle with two labels, and inside all that, a beer.

The beer, so you know, is pretty tasty.  I has a rich metallic-caramel flavor with layers and waves of banana, yeast, malt, and an acidic tinge.  Reading that back, it sounds awful, but, in reality, it is tasty.  Square that with your brain how you can.  I like tasty beer, for obvious reasons, but I have had truly beautiful beer in the past.  This ain't that.

I hope to examine this beer's layers of point-of-sale marketing, judge each element's merit, and ultimately decide where the whole thing falls on a scale of gilded-lily to polished-turd.  With that in mind, lets talk about packaging, pomp-deservedness, and whether pigs have wings.

Starting with the innermost layer, THE BOTTLE:

The brown glass bottle is shaped in what could be regarded as a familiar English style, with its bumpy, quasi-dumbbell body and stubby-fallace neck.  Of course it is.  This makes perfect sense and is even expected from an old British brewery, and is neither a gilded-lily or a polished-turd.

The front label could be described as efficient.  A tall oval with charcoal, pale tans, splashes of Merlot red, and just a few touches of gold foil, gives the drinker all the basic information: what you are drinking, how much of it did the bottle start out with, who made it, and finally, this individual beer's production number.  It is the production number that gives me pause.  I don't plan to keep this beer or even just the bottle.  I have no intention of showing it off to my friends.  It can't be resealed and trotted out at special occasions.  Also, I'm pretty sure it will fail to appreciate in value.  So, why should I care what specific number of this limited edition I am drinking?  Why would anyone care?  Maybe if I let the media know that I am currently drinking No.109166, they will dispatch a news crew, but I doubt it.  To be fair, though, if I were releasing a limited edition of anything, I also might reasonably number the individuals.  Pride?  Practical?  Bragadocio?  Given that this label is already partly gilded, and the numbering only comes off a bit as flash-for-flash-sake, I'll call the front label about 90% gilded-lily.

The back label is a very different story.  In stark contrast to the front label's efficiency, the back label is a mess of text blocks and governmental mandates.  It reminds me of the climax of the movie Titanic, with a small raft covered in something fancy but uninteresting surrounded by ham-fisted warnings about choices and consequences and some banal prattle. I respect the mandate to include many of these bits, but this at least 95% polished-turd.

Finally, the seal and cap deserve a comment.  The cap is pleasantly marked gold on black with the Fuller's gryphon, which is pretty cool.  Sadly, the sticky seal completely obscures it.  The seal just reminds us, again, that this is the 2013 limited edition.  To the seal's credit, it was super fun to open the bottle through the seal.  It felt momentous and was wholly unnecessary, but kind of cool.  We'll call the cap a given (I'm glad it wasn't a cork) and just judge the seal.  This beer in no way needs a seal.  100% polished-turd.

How about THE BOX:

The box is nicely made and tastefully appointed.  It feels good in the hand and invites the eye to read its labels.  Somebody at Fuller's deserves a "kudos" for this box.  A box on a beer shelf has a siren's song for any booze-voyager.  It is a mystery and a gamble, calling us to find out for ourselves what treasures or traps might be hidden inside.  The labels on the box are slightly slicker versions of the labels on the bottle, the fronts are both pleasant, but the back label on the box is a vast improvement on its bottle sister.  But, does this beer deserve such a grand enticement?  No.  The beer may be tasty, but that doesn't really justify the box, does it?  There are lots of excellent beers, even limited edition beers without boxes.  While the box is very well executed, it is also just one more thing to recycle later.  Being kind-of-bullshit and kind-of-tribute, the box is 50% gilded-lily and 50% polished-turd.

Finally that little INSERT:

The insert is a little, four-page, single fold scrap I just happened to notice, like an awful toy at the bottom of my beer-cereal box.  It takes a moment to describe the vintage ale series and the previous iterations going back to 1997.  I started reading it.  I did not finish reading it.  Not only was it very dull, but it is also very pointless.  I cannot go and find these past beers.  Surely no average customer has kept them in anticipation of some future special occasion.  So, why do I care?  In a series of limited edition serieses (probably a real word), shouldn't I expect variations and distinctions?  I don't need to know what they are for any reason I can think of.  All the same, I suppose the maker of the serieses has a right to be proud of the current series and view it in context of its predecessors.  In the end, this is a tasty beer, but no so tasty that I want to break out its family photo album.  99% polished-turd.

CONCLUSION:

Don't pay for one of these beers with your own money.  Don't try to impress others by buying them one of these beers with your own money.  However, if someone buys you one of these, you will enjoy a pretty good beer.  If they start to tell you all about it, give you its individual series number, show you the box, and yammer on about the previous 18 versions, do slowly back away and try not to make eye-contact.  There is way more polished-turd to this beer than gilded-lily.